


COME GET ME.

by thewinterking



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Typical Violence, Fix-It, M/M, Mentions of Mental Illness, Sort Of, canon typical gun violence, dark alternate fall of overwatch, sexually explicit, unbetad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 10:49:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14377077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewinterking/pseuds/thewinterking
Summary: One way or another, they were always bound for this.A dark fix-it / alternate fall of Overwatch.





	COME GET ME.

**Author's Note:**

> heavily revised. reposted 4/20 after taking it down a year ago.

 

 

No one understands anymore  
how beautiful he was. But Persephone remembers.  
Also that he embraced her, right there,  
with her uncle watching. She remembers  
sunlight flashing on his bare arms.

This is the last moment she remembers clearly.  
Then the dark god bore her away.

She also remembers, less clearly,  
the chilling insight that from this moment  
she couldn’t live without him again.

 

 _A Myth of Innocence_ , Louise Gluck.

 

 

 

 

 

The farmhouse they find themselves in sits well beyond the borders of Zurich. Grime on the windows and dust caked on every surface says it’s long abandoned — how Gabriel came to possess it is anyone’s guess. _Not on the radar,_ he assured Jack quickly, which meant not a Blackwatch safe house.

It’s hard to imagine any of them holed up here. Messana and Janson didn’t sit idle for long without finding trouble. Shimada was no better; his temper ran so hot he was always coming to blows with someone.

But most tellingly, there were none of McCree’s peculiar effects strung around the farm house. No posters decorated the walls with long dead rock bands. The cracked counter tops lacked ashed cigarillos or discarded rolling papers. Not a Blackwatch hideout and not a site disclosed to Jack — but _what_ it was and _why_ he had acquired it was lost on him.

Any other day, the knowledge wouldn’t have rankled him. Gabriel was always ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room, making contingency plans for his contingency plans. Coolly efficient, harshly precise, and ever a man of his word — that was Gabriel Reyes, Blackwatch Commander. The man who kissed with the same brutality as he killed. The man who, no matter how black his moods, drew people into his orbit.

It’s hard to reconcile that man with this new Gabriel. He’s the brightest spot in the room. Everything feels dull and colorless behind him.

Jack grips the edges of the threadbare couch tight enough to tear, and then releases his grip. He does it again and again, rhythmic like a pulse, and tries to focus on that instead of his frayed nerves.

The fireplace blazes hot against the other man’s profile, casting a spanning shadow across the small space. Since the early days of SEP, he’s never seen Gabriel look so affected, pacing in aborted jolts like he can’t stand immobile for longer than a second. His dark brows are drawn, his lips curled into a sneer, and the words that leave him do not hang in the air for long. He speaks too rapidly for that, too _manic_ for that.

It's his hands that hold Jack’s attention more than anything else. Dark and scarred, they splay emphatically, curl with violence, gesture to himself, to Jack, then seize outward and point to a direction he knows to be Headquarters. _This whole time,_ he keeps saying, _closing in around us, turning us against each other._

Jack thinks of McCree’s face, expression shuttered and pale, as he passed him in the hall. The once perpetual sneering smile he reserved for Jack had vanished over time. His camaraderie with Gabriel seemed diminished, if it still existed at all.

He should have asked, he realizes with a churn to his stomach. He should have set it all aside — his reservation for taking in a criminal teenager, his dislike of someone who so openly wore their disdain for himself — he should have thrown it aside, stopped McCree there in the hall, and demanded to know what was going on with his commander.

But, McCree’s gone now and the man in from of him is _sick_.

Gabriel sweeps down and scoops up one of the manila files scattered there — not official records, but his own, each meticulously detailing some sort of conspiracy — pulling something out of it to brandish Jack’s way. The folder flies from his hand, discarded harshly with a vicious comment and the twist of his mouth.

Jack dips his eyes to glance at it — knows if he doesn’t, Gabriel will direct all that bottled anger his way — but he doesn’t read it. He can’t. The words blur together on the page, rendering Gabriel’s handsome handwriting into little more than streaks of black. His fingers crease the edges of the paper with how tightly he’s holding it, and that’s when he notices it’s to stop them from shaking.

 _Gabriel’s sick. He’s sick, he’s sick._ The words wash over him like a cruel litany, endless and unbidden.

“... And just like that, Adawe pulls back? Withdraws back to the UN, stops pressing the both of us for information, reports, details about the SEP? Do you think just because you smile pretty for the camera and say a few good words, it’s really enough to lift the red tape and take us out from their bureaucratic sanctions? No — you get _Kahler_ in an office down the hall and suddenly they’re all fucking ecstatic about the direction of Overwatch…”

He can’t look at the paper anymore, can’t look at Gabriel without feeling like the ground is going to open and swallow them whole. He looks to the sea of folders instead, their contents strewn recklessly — one even dangerously close to sliding under the grate of the fireplace. It holds his attention not because of the edge turning crisp and brown from heat, but for the gruesome photo clipped to its surface.

Gabriel stills, and though the reprieve should be welcome after the forty minute speech railing against Overwatch, an invisible weight settles over the room, more oppressive than any of his barbed remarks.

“Reina Thayer.” When Gabriel speaks again, it’s so quiet, so _gentle_ that it makes Jack’s throat tight.

It is not the face of Reina that greets him, but the sight of her mangled head lying discarded on the demolished streets of Syracuse. The snow that cushions her body is soaked red, but the picture fails to capture the true brutality of it. It took one day to find her after after Beckett returned and reported his partner had been cut down by Bastion units. The blood looked freshly spilled when they found her. The freezing temperatures preserved most of her body; she was even strewn out gracefully, her arms arcing like a dancer’s. The official autopsy said she’d been caught off guard, blown backwards from impact.

It was the gore here that ruined shattered the illusion. 

She was four months pregnant and desperate to stay out on the battlefield for as long as possible. Neither he nor Gabriel had fought against her decision; they had lost too many to let another capable soldier slip into an early retirement.

_You should have forced her. You should have paid attention. You could have saved her._

_You could have saved_ Gabriel _, you should have paid attention, you should have forced -_

He tears his attention away and fixes it right on the other man. The heat of the fire has tears prickling the corner of Jack’s eyes, and its smoke has his throat feels so tight that he can hardly speak without the whine of emotion slicing through it. He doesn’t care. “Why do you have this? You think — you think Reina was — that she was —”

“No.” Calm settles over Gabriel in waves. His hands rise placatingly towards Jack, as though _he’s_ the one coming apart at the seams. His brows are knit and so high they nearly brush his beanie cap. “Jack.”

He hates him for it, that tone — the way it makes him want to buckle pathetically at the mercy of all this madness.

“Jack, look at me,” Gabriel implores, tender in a way that’s wholly alien with his previous tirade. Tender in a way Jack knows well.

The paper crumples harshly in his grip and he can’t bring himself to care, not when his knees are ready to give out.

 _Gabriel’s sick_ , he thinks again. Then, worse, _Gabriel’s mad. He’s crazy._ _He’s lost his mind, he’s insane —  
_

Gabriel seizes forward and wraps his broad hands around Jack’s arms, tight enough to leave bruises beneath the white Henley shirt he wears.

The grip would be a comfort on any other day, but not now when it’s all falling apart, when _they’re_ falling apart.

“Stop.” The order comes out reedy and weak. He tries to find his voice, but even when summoning his anger, he can’t muster a yell. “Let _go_ of me — get off! Get off me!”

Gabriel doesn’t. He pulls him in bodily until Jack has nowhere else to look.

“ _B_ _eckett_ , Jack. You really think a Bastion unit at that range would just take someone’s head off, and leave the other guy standing? _Reina_ was coming up for promotion, _Reina_ was the rising star. Who steps into that promotion the second she’s cut down?”

Beckett. He can’t breathe and he knows it's not the smoke of the hearth constricting around his windpipe. Jack stumbles, or tries to, because Gabriel won’t let him go. He pushes and pushes until his own knees give under the weak exertion. Jack’s feet slide on the scattered papers, his body heaves for air.

But, Gabriel holds his arms tight and doesn’t let him fall.

“Do you see how far this goes? How far back this goes-”

“Stop,” he rasps, _pleads_ , and Gabriel only shakes his head and continues with that voice that makes it worse.

“You see now? You see what they’ve _done_ , Jack? What they’ve been doing to us? Putting us under their thumb, making us blind do it, surrounding us at every level and at every fucking bend with Talon agents. Ana’s dead. Gerard’s dead — they’ll pick us off one by one until there’s nothing left.”

He can’t think of Gerard's coy smile or Ana’s rolling laughter, carrying like a song.

He thinks instead of Beckett standing at Reina’s funeral, of Beckett being pinned with a medal that should have been hers, of Beckett, corralling him in the hall not two weeks ago, his voice low and concerned. _Look, Jack. I like Reyes, but don’t you think there’s something off about him? And you heard the report out of São Paulo — don’t tell me that wasn’t a Blackwatch operation._

The same thing had been echoed by Kahler, lingering in his office long after everyone had left the meeting. _We all know Reyes is a hero, Jack, but that thing in São Paulo — you and I both know that’s how Blackwatch operates._

 _It’s not,_ he insisted over and over, even as each defense felt weaker than the last. _I know Reyes. I know where he was._

Gabriel had said a mission took him to Abidjan, and Jack hadn’t questioned it — but still the doubt lingered. Dozens dead, with three children among the casualties.

 _Commander Reyes doesn’t kill kids._ It was a fierce declaration, one meant to settle the matter.

Kahler and Beckett both came back with the same question: _would you truly know if he did?_

He should have seen it — all of it, Reina, Ana, Gerard. He thinks of Jesse’s pale and drawn face, the influx of agents too eager to help and be heroes, Adawe’s demotion and tied hands —

Jack sags weightlessly and Gabriel wrangles him back onto the couch. Calloused hands slide up his arms until they’re framing the Jack’s tear stricken face. Part of him should be ashamed; he’s crying when he should be questioning. He’s _crying_ when he ought to fight Gabriel off and look at this with eyes open. His hands curl into fists and settle on Gabriel’s biceps, but he can’t summon the will to fight him off.

Gabriel crouches in front of him, searching over his face with unbridled concern. “Breathe. Come on, you don’t get out of this by passing out on me, breathe slow, there we go…”

He shoves down the knowledge that he probably looks pathetic, too, that they have no time for this when everything is cracking apart between them, around them. Gabriel’s talking again and the words pass over him in a haze. He thinks of San Diego, of a bullet the length of his palm that had torn cleanly through his side. There in the rubble, bleeding out, an unsettling coolness had settled over him. A chill that had left him numb to pain, deaf to the raging battle, and blind to everything but the man crouching above him.

Gabriel had shouted, at him, at others, had pressed a hand to his sight and come away bloody for it. He remembered thinking _I love this man_ for the first time, but even looking back on it, he knows that isn’t right.

The first time had been in the training room back at SEP. Gabriel had checked Rodriguez into the mat no less than three times, and on the third he had picked himself and laughed uproariously. He was sweat slick with exertion, had his head tilted back and throat working around gulps of breath, and Jack had felt something like longing rush over him. It was short lived; Rodriguez had turned over with a snarl, took to his feet, and launched at Gabriel’s back.

The blow never came. By the time Jack and Rodriguez were pried away from each other, the man had a fractured eye socket and Jack knew from the blood running down his own lips that his nose was broken. It had been Gabriel that held him back, Gabriel that had hauled him off toward the med-bay, and Gabriel that had stared at him the whole way in bewildered silence.

And that’s the problem of Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes.

Jack feels his breath settle in his chest, but Gabriel is still coaxing him through it, brushing his thumbs over his face and cupping his jaw in both hands. He watches him, this brilliant, tender, terrifying man, and feels the same longing sweep over him in droves.

It doesn’t matter if he’s wrong about the corruption. It doesn’t matter if he’s at the heart of it, pulling the strings and drawing Jack into the shadows with him. It doesn’t matter if this will ruin them, because there’s no Jack Morrison without Gabriel Reyes.

Whatever special hell Gabriel has in store, Jack wants so fervently it startles him.

“Jack?”

He’s beautiful — even at fifty-three, when he’s tired and torn up with scars. Jack drinks it all in: his hazel eyes, dark skin, sharp nose, and wide lips. Gabe has the same sharp jawline he did at twenty-five, and Jack’s fingers still ache when he can’t touch it.

He looks so concerned; the weight of his stare makes Jack feel like the only person left in the world.

It usually makes him feel good, but right now Jack prefers a different, more familiar expression on him.

It’s not the first time he’s caught him off guard. His palms come together in a mockery of a prayer, dive up between Gabriel’s arms, and force them away.

It happens too quick for Gabriel to react, because by the time he thinks to react, Jack hauls him forward by the collar.

The kiss is a punch — a brutal clack of teeth that threatens to draw blood, but he doesn’t care. It’s better this way, goading out Gabriel’s cruel hands with rough ministrations. Jack nips the corner of his mouth, shoves against his chest, then tries to wrestle him in. He’s uncalculated, but not uncoordinated. Every push and pull means to set Gabriel off-balance.

They’ve played this old game before. Gabriel wrote the playbook. Jack shouldn’t be surprised when his gambit fails.

Gabriel doesn’t strike or bite back. Instead, he cups Jack’s jaw with a strong hand and pries his fingers into his cheek. In a blink, his grip constricts. The whole length of his palm squeezes until Jack feels his jaw pop in the joint. His teeth feel like they’re going to shatter if he doesn’t open up.

He tries to hold out. He counts off four seconds, but Gabriel’s hand has gone nowhere and for a dark second, Jack wonders if he really _would_ break his jaw.

His lips part, slowly at first, then wide and gaping as he sucks in air.

The kiss that comes this time is languid and deep. Gabriel whispers something inaudible against Jack’s lips, and then he’s slotting their mouths together, licking into his mouth, rumbling low in his chest with pleasure. A knee slots between Jack’s own on the couch, forcing him further back, making him crane his head to meet the kiss.

One hand, that’s all Gabriel needs to mold Jack however and wherever he wants. He’s kneeling on the cushion, using his free arm to carelessly rest against the back of it, and still he cages the other in. All Jack can do is search for purchase against the fabric of his sweat-shirt and shudder out something that sounds too close to a whine for his own ears.

“That’s it,” Gabriel husks when he pulls away, his lidded eyes fixed down on Jack’s face. “I know what you want. I’ve always known — I know your every move before you even think it. Always have.” The callous of his thumb swipes over Jack’s lower lip, before sinking past it. “Always will.”

It meets the graze of blunt teeth, but soon he’s rolling his tongue against the pad of it. When Gabriel pulls his thumb free, his fingers card through Jack’s blonde hair and sends it back from his forehead. Jack bites back a sigh and wishes he hadn't stopped. Reina's corpse lays photographed somewhere in the mess of paperwork beneath them, and if he closes his eyes too long he knows he'll see the way her blood had soaked the ground.

“They’ll come after everyone," he begins, the words bubbling from his throat before he can help it, "Agents, our families —"

“I’ll protect them,” Gabriel answers without missing a beat.

“They’ll come after us.”

Something flashes in Gabriel’s dark eyes as his hand tightens in Jack’s hair, wrenching his head even further back. _Us_. They’ll come after _us_.

Jack watches the hoarse breath leave the other man’s lungs as he processes that.

“Then, together…?”

There’s an opening and Jack seizes it — anything to get away from this conversation. He presses both hands high on his chest and _shoves_ until Gabriel has no other choice but to release him or fall dangerously close to the fire.

Jack rolls to the side off the couch, hits his feet and bolts around it. He turns again when he reaches the rickety stairs, and starts a backward ascent. Gabriel doesn’t move. He watches him utterly still like a predator, eyes blown wide and lips parted to suck in ragged huffs of air.

Step after step he climbs, his attention never breaking from the Blackwatch commander. Only when he hits the landing does he turn to bolt, and it’s the same moment that Gabriel vaults over the couch, kicking up discarded files in his wake. He’s faster than Gabriel, but only just, and he doesn’t know the layout of the farmhouse like him. By the time he finds the right door — an aged room with nothing but a bed and dresser inside it — Gabriel’s upon him.

Trapped.

Gabriel kicks the door shut behind him, and takes measured steps forward — one, two, three, four. He’s got Jack nearly against the bed when he stops, licking his lips as he searches him over with his eyes.

“You mean it,” he starts again, his voice still low with disbelief. “You’re going to help me take it down — Overwatch, Blackwatch, and every _pinche puto_ that gets in our way.”

“Yeah,” Jack answers breathlessly, like they're talking about where to go for dinner instead of tearing down the very thing they spent half their lives building up. His elbow hooks in his own Henley shirt before hoisting it up and over his head. “Yeah. Come get me.”

Gabriel doesn’t move, he's rooted to the spot. His hands flex and curl in upon themselves over and over again. If Jack looks, he’s certain he’ll find crescent marks where his nails are biting into his palm.

“Come get me,” he orders again, rougher this time. The belt comes off next, a clattering of the metal buckle before he pulls it free of his waistband. "Come get —”

Gabriel’s on him just like that, tearing the belt from his hand and bodily shoving him down into the old duvet.

“Yeah, I got you,” he snarls back, teeth baring as Jack puts up a valiant struggle. Every blow to his side is taken in stride, every clawing scratch ignored, because the second he’s perched on Jack’s chest, it’s game over. His knees pin down against the fleshy muscle of his arms, leaving his hands forcibly cast out toward each side of the bed.

“ _Me_. I fucking got you. You think anyone else can handle your star-spangled ass? You think anyone else will ever know you like I do?”

The belt goes discarded against the headboard as Gabriel brings his hands to the zipper of his hoodie. It comes off in a flourish — a single zip down before he casts it across the room. The black turtleneck is next; he reaches at the nape of his neck and hauls it off to let it drift to the floor.

“Fuck,” Jack hisses through his teeth. Gabriel’s got his own belt open, and the hand that isn’t carding through blonde hair is pressing past the band of his pants. He’s not even half-hard yet, and his cock’s still big and flushing darkly in his fist. Jack strains against the hold in his hair, lips parted, breath ragged.

“That’s it,” is the rasp that leaves him when Jack presses his lips hotly against the head of it — a wet, gasping kiss that draws a shudder out of the other. Gabriel’s hand works down its shaft, stroking towards his mouth, pushing past his lips a little more each time.

Jack gives himself to it, to Gabe, like he always has: wholly yielding, wholly his. Cranes his head up as far as his neck will allow and moans around the weight on his tongue. The angle doesn't allow him to do much else but lavish the slit of his cock, but if that's what Gabriel wants he'd do it — stay there like that the entire night hollowing out his cheeks and tasting him like he can't get enough. Just the thought of it has him planting his feet against the bed, desperate for relief. There’s nothing to buck his hips up toward, no friction to grind into but the jut of his zipper, and he still tries.

The attempt isn’t lost on Gabriel, who pulls his hand free and lets Jack’s slip back onto the lumpy pillow. Saliva coats the head of his dick, and he works his palm over it before dragging his scarred fist down to the root. Watching him take himself in hand always works Jack up like nothing else — the sheer strength of him, the way his hips gyrate forward, the part of his mouth as he takes in breath. He's artless, scorching, and it sends heat flooding through Jack like unchecked wildfire — until Gabriel pulls away and slides off his arms.

Jack’s swollen lips form an ‘o’ in surprise and though he doesn’t have all the feeling back in his hands, he tries to shove himself up. Gabriel pushes him back down without delay.

“Let me get you wet — let me just —”

“As charming a thought that is, I want you in one piece.” The leather belt left near the headboard finds use in binding Jack’s wrists through the wood rotten posts. One good tug and the entire thing will snap, but Gabriel doesn’t seem to mind.

“So come here, then.”

“How long have you known me?” Gabriel bends down and swipes off boot after boot, then shucks off his pants and underwear. It’s hard not to appreciate the view. “You think I’d go anywhere unprepared where your sorry ass is involved?”

The dresser drawers open and close — light enough to sound like they’re empty — but when Gabe turns around it’s with a couple of glossy packets in hand.

“Shit, how old is that?”

“You’re going to ruin my good mood, _princesa_.”

_“Qué te jodan.”_

“Ahhh, farm boy remembers his Spanish when he wants something, that it?”

“ _Venga, cógeme_.”

“Crude. I think you want _ven y agárrame,_ gringo, but points for effort," Gabe tuts, tearing free the knots in Jack’s laces as he slides off the boot. The other soon joins the first on the floor. “Say it.”

Jack lifts his hips as his pants are tugged free from his legs, and the motion already has the post cracking like it means to give way. “ _Hijo de puta_ ,” he answers instead, his mouth curling at the corner.

When Gabriel grabs the metallic packets, but doesn’t bother tearing them open yet. The bed dips with the weight of him kneeling, and though he grabs Jack’s leg with a sharper pull, gone is the playful expression he had formerly been wearing. There’s little light filtering in through the grime of the glass windows, and while some of it dances on the cut of his jaw, it leaves his eyes masked. “Say it.”

No more than a whisper, but a pleading one and Jack hates the tone.

Hates it — hates this — the impending judgement facing them and everyone ever associated with Overwatch. The files scattered downstairs near the fire, each one signalling both a failure in their duties and a fresh crack in them — Gabe and Jack. His breath catches as he thinks back to that sleepy Syracuse night, the weather somewhere around freezing, and the red stain of Reina’s blood slashed across the snow.

 _That thing in São Paulo,_ the agents had said, _would you truly know if he did?_

“Jack.”

It shouldn’t be like this. Their last night before the storm that will surely damn them shouldn’t be spent in a dilapidated farmhouse outside of Zurich. And Gabriel shouldn’t wear that tone, shouldn’t be fighting to keep hold of his anger, because if it disappears, then his will might, too.

 _“Ven y agárrame, ven y agárrame,_ come get me,” leaves him in a rush. The belt is almost comical at this point — an annoying hindrance that he slips from without hesitation. It leaves him enough time to arch up, to pull at those broad shoulders and bring Gabriel over him.

They grapple and kiss until the air grows thick with the realization of what has to be done: Overwatch has to fall.

If Gabriel’s right — and he has to be, because Jack can’t entertain the alternative — then Talon hasn’t just infiltrated the organization, its infiltrated the UN, too. How far did it go? Did Talon control diplomats? Was their presence felt in governments?

Gabriel’s hands turn bruising as they gather Jack’s wrists and pin them. Jack struggles against it this time. His body writhes under Gabe’s, twisting and kicking under his weight, but this time there’s no catching him off guard. There’s nowhere to go. 

One hand, that’s all Gabriel needs to mold Jack however and wherever he wants.

Gabriel bears down harder like he thinks Jack _wants_ to get free. As though this isn’t real and nothing he’s said is sincere. His brow scrunches harshly. The corner of his eyes crease with deep lines. Even his mouth twists.

Maybe Gabriel thinks he’ll go back on his word, or turn on him at the last second. Maybe he thinks Jack isn’t sincere.

The thought turns to a stone and plummets into his stomach. Why _would_ Gabriel believe him?

Golden boy. Boy scout, Strike Commander.

It’s that, not the press of slick fingers dipping between his spread legs, that has him whining.

Gabriel stops cold. His eyes are wide and searching when he looks up.

“I’m not leaving, okay? I'm not going anywhere, I swear.”

“Jack...”

“Tell me what you want. Do you want me to burn it down to the ground? Do you want me to go live," the word sticks in his throat, "in front of everyone and tell them everything, to degrade myself? I’ll do it. I’d do it for you Just _tell me_ , just tell me what you—”

Gabriel huffs impatiently. His fingers keep working, sinking in and stretching him until Jack’s keening for it with the undulation of his hips. It’s nearly too much too fast, but there’s a fervor in Gabriel’s ministrations that makes the burn well worth it.

“Do you think I’d let them have you?”

“Nngh — nah-ha, _Gabe_ —”

Jack’s cock is a leaking mess against his stomach, flushed red and twitching. He wants to touch himself, or grind on Gabriel. If he can get off a couple sloppy strokes, he’ll be good. He’ll be able to catch his breath.

But when Jack jerks a hand from Gabriel’s hold, the man snarls. His teeth flash white and suddenly Jack’s caged.

“Huh? Do you think I’d send out the hounds on you, Jackie? Let them parade you around as the martyr, watching you placate yourself and beg for their forgiveness? No, no, no, fuck that. The only person on this whole fucking planet who has any say on what happens to you is me, you got that?”

“God —”

“Yeah —”

“Since SEP —”

“Yeah —”

“Gabe, I should have... ” gasps Jack, and he doesn’t have a chance to finish that thought with the way Gabriel’s fingers draw out of him.

“Shut up, shut up, _shut up.”_

It doesn’t matter how many times he’s taken him. The thick head of his cock makes his spine bow and arch. Jack’s feet scramble across the bed, fighting for leverage. He wants to sink back on it, wants to fuck himself on Gabriel’s dick and _feel_ it.

“Oh please, please, ven — ah, _ven y cógeme,_ fuck me _please_ —”

The struggle is a live-wire jolting through Gabriel. He doesn’t give Jack a chance to move, not when he’s trapped hotly between his thighs. His hand leaves his own cock to grab for Jack’s hip. He could drill him like that. Gabe could fuck Jack as hard and fast as he wanted — he could use him and Jack would let him.

But, that’s not the point. That’s not what Gabriel _wants_.

If their twenty years together has taught Jack anything it’s this: what Gabriel wants more than anything in the world is to be understood. To be known deeper than the surface. To be more than his barbed quips or his recalcitrant reputation.

Jack knows who he is. He’s always known. Senior officer in the Program. His first commander. Humanity’s savior. Overwatch’s shadow leader.

Gabriel’s always been ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room, but never for his own pride.  That’s why he’s never wanted the medals or the statues. That’s why he went rogue in Venice and put agents in King’s Row. Every decision Gabe’s made has been for the greater good.

No one else knows him like this. The way he rolls his hips little by little is almost tender. Gabriel shifts until Jack’s ass is planted squarely on his lap.

 _He’s not a bad man_ , Jack thinks desperately. _He’s not. He can’t be._

The angle has Jack’s shoulders digging into the worn mattress. Gabriel releases his wrists, but Jack snaps to catch his hand before it can go too far.

“Gabe,” he pants. “Come on. _Come on_.”

“Let me have this.”

“I am — I just want it — I really want it —”

“You… Jack — _hah —_ you don’t get it.”

Jack bends a leg around the low of Gabriel’s back and squeezes to hurry him along. “I get it. I fuckin’ get it, goddamn it. Just _fuck_ me.”

Gabriel reaches back and forces his leg down. It’s a wordless _no_. He presses forward with more of the same — little by little, withdrawing before sinking in more than the last. It rolls on until Jack thinks he means to keep him there the whole night, teased with a game he doesn’t want to play.

And when he’s finally flush against his ass, his dick hilted inside him, Gabriel folds over Jack. His breathing is labored but not erratic — not like Jack, who’s gasping and blinking tears out of his eyes for the second time that night.

He doesn’t know why he’s crying. It’s pathetic, humiliating, but when he tries to turn away Gabe’s hand is there, twisting his face back up.

“I can’t, I can’t, you have to —”

“Who’s got you? Who’s always had you?”

“You! Jesus _fuck_ , you —”

“Who decides what happens to you?”

“You,” Jack sobs out. The files scattered downstairs edge into his periphery the longer Gabriel delays. Reina’s body is there, with Beckett’s proud grin as he’s pinned with a medal that doesn’t belong to him. Ana’s funeral. The Strike-Commander ceremony. Gerard Lacroix's corpse. Jesse McCree’s shuttered face. Gabriel’s quiet assurance when he hears he’s been promoted: _I’m proud of you._

It’s all there, threatening to consume him.

“Ask me,” Gabriel husks.

“Please — come get me — Gabriel, please.”

That’s all it takes.

Gabriel folds like a house of cards under the plea.

Jack grapples for him, but his hands are knocked away. Gabriel takes him bodily, hauling him up into his lap until Jack’s seated on his dick.

The stretch of his cock has him panting and pleading, because even though he wraps an arm around Gabriel’s shoulders, he can’t lift himself up. He can’t ride him like he wants. The night has him bone tired and trembling with emotion he can’t untangle.

All the medical innovation in the world and he can’t do it. He can’t do more than cling to Gabe like they mean to tear him away.

 _They_. Overwatch. Blackwatch. The UN. Talon. And everyone in between.

“Who’s got you?” Gabriel asks again, his mouth hot and flush against Jack’s. “Who’s got you, sweetheart? _Mi corazón_ , baby, _te amo, te amo, te amo_ …”

Gabriel takes Jack by the hips. The stretch of his cock is unbearable and perfect all at once. He’s lifted like he weighs nothing, then ground down into his lap. Gabriel keeps rhythm until his arms are trembling under the strain.

All Jack can do is hold on, with fingers splaying across Gabriel’s shorn hair, grabbing, gripping, tugging, remembering.

Remembering everything.

The scent of his aftershave, the way he tries to smother his groans, the feeling of his lips against his own — not kissing, but sharing a single breath.

 

 

— — —

 

 

There’s nothing remiss across Headquarters the morning Gabriel’s plan is to unfold. Jack watches with a wary eye was men and women cross through security, some agitated and late while others — some as young as Lena — bound forward with a tray of coffee in their hands. His heart hammers in his chest so harshly that he thinks someone will hear it, so he retreats into the refuge of his office and thinks of Reina, Gerard, Amelie and every other name plastered across Gabriel’s records.

The knock on the door tears him from his stupor. Gabriel doesn’t speak as he closes the door behind them and strides across the room. There’s a case stashed there — Jack put it there himself — and inside the foam lining are two shot guns with ample rounds of ammunition. Jack’s rifle already lays assembled on the desk.

A couple of agents throw them curious glances when they exit the office, but no one seeks to stop them. They’re not the first members of Overwatch to pace the halls with weapons in tow.

Kahler’s office is the first door Gabriel kicks down, but it’s Jack that takes the first shot.

Later, when they find Beckett, Gabriel barely gives him the chance to speak. There’s poetic justice in the way his body splays out on the ground, painting the orange and white floors red. One shotgun blast was all it took to remove his head clean from his body, but Gabe doesn’t let him dwell on the sight.

 

 

— — —

 

 

In the end, it’s a fire that threatens to consume the building. Gabriel had made sure to compromise the security system, but it almost makes the charges planted around the base feel useless. Dead would-be assailants lay scattered across the lobby, their weapons not far from them. Smoke obscures the rest, and though their bodies are made to withstand what would kill most men, Jack feels the burn all the way down to his lungs.

They’re not long for the next string reinforcements, and even now he can hear the distant thunder of incoming jets. One glance down at the gun’s HUD confirms the worst; a red flashing alarm light warns that even with the ammunition installed in the pulse rifle, it’s no use trying to fire it.

Jack pulls the strap from his shoulder and lets the gun clatter to the ground. His leg’s bleeding; when he got shot, he’s not sure. Gabriel is in worse shape — he's standing still, despite everything — but bloodied somewhere around his stomach. Any attempt to look at the wound, to peel back the jacket and armor beneath and _really look_ , was waved off by a cursing Gabe.

He wants to ask whether it was worth it, all of this, but he finds he can’t summon the words.

Jets roar above them and now he knows they’re surrounded. Talon, Overwatch — it doesn’t matter who it is. His shoulders sag and his attention lolls down to the orange emblem beneath their feet.

Sirens blare outside and men holler over intercoms for the two to come out and surrender. It almost tears a laugh from him, until Gabriel tries to turn and nearly collapses for his effort. Jack rushes to him, gets under his shoulders and tries to hoist him up.

That’s when he sees it — Gabriel’s brandished arm holding the remote trigger. His thumb hovers precariously over the detonator.

“Gabe,” he calls out, to stop him or what, he’s not sure. He doesn’t get the chance either way.

Gabriel’s arm curls around Jack as though he hadn’t just been propping him up, and Jack finds himself twisted with the motion. He's turned so sharply he nearly buckles to the ground. Gabriel keeps him from slipping, with one steady arm snug under his back.

It takes him a moment to get it — the way they look — and that he’s being dipped low like a dancer in the middle of a waltz. Smoke and sunlight form an eerie halo around Gabriel’s bloodied head.

“Who’s got you, Jack?”

He doesn’t feel the initial blast — only the heat of Gabriel’s mouth.

 

 

— — —

 

 

Every front page across the globe screams 'ROGUE LEADERS MASSACRE INNOCENTS'.  The pictures they use look like criminal mugshots, not army portraits.

The UN declares them dead, has them buried in a single unmarked grave, and shuts down Overwatch through the Petras Act.

Jack pulls himself from the rubble. Gabriel does not.

Months pass in solace and madness, each day driven only by the insatiable need for retribution. He takes an old name — tells himself once more that there is no Jack Morrison without Gabriel Reyes.

And in the isolation of an El Dorado apartment, Soldier: 76 stares out into the shadows until he swears he sees something move.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Foldingcranes was wonderful and helped me fix the Spanish. Find their fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foldingcranes) and follow them on twitter @kasdelav!!
> 
>    
> find me at @blackvvatch on twitter.
> 
>  
> 
> if you're looking for updates on automatic, they will be slow coming. i'm currently working on a new one shot and updating the devil's due.


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